For me, I write. I post my thoughts, my fears, my feelings, for the world to see. Does it take courage? Does it take anonymity?

Yes and no. People have found this site that I might not have chosen to see it. Has that censored things I've written? Yes and no. But I've never removed anything that once appeared on this site. If I posted it once, to this day it remains.

For me, I write. I write to clear my thoughts, and to remove niggling phrases, concepts or other ideas from my head. I write to make sense -- either by talking it out or explaining it to someone else.

For you, however, I censor myself. I don't write about how bad the sex and relationship was with the coworker; I dont' write about the confusing mix of love-longing-hatred I experience for boyfriends past, and I don't write about how sometimes I want to hurt myself, really physically experience some sort of major accident or trauma to see who comes to my side, who really cares.

I don't write about how sometimes I envy people with chemical imbalances who hurt themselves, because they have a reason for waht it is they do. I don't write about how sometimes the only thing that keeps my from doing it is the rational voice in my head that smacks me and tells me that I'd just be doing it for attention. I'm too aware of that.

I don't write about how amazingly ridiculous and befuddling it is to me that people see me as confident. On occasion I'll lapse into a whine about something on here, something about how I hate my (fill in the blanks), and certain well-meaning friends will brush it aside and tell me how ridiculous it is.

Being in a relationship is a boost to the ego, and being dumped is devastating to it -- at least if you're me. For a time I believe that I am the sexiest, the most interesting, the most adorable, the most fun -- okay, maybe not the most, but right up there -- I'm vitally important to someone.

Needless to say, that feeling goes awy when the boyfriend does -- at least until the next one. No longer am I the first to hear his news, to be seduced, to be cuddled, to have my feelings and fears and worries looked out for. That's for his next girlfriend or sex partner, and make no mistake, rejection hurts.

Sometimes it feels like I take rejection more personally than others, because of my habit of over-analyzing. Hearing this person doesn't like me, especially if it's for a dumb reason, nags at me for a time.

Just like break-ups. I don't let go easily, at least not if I still have feelings involved. In some circumstances, I've had to put on a bitter/hostile front in order to protect myself.

Other times... well, I just keep hurting and hurting myself until I can reconstruct my walls. I sit in my little corner, invisible to the world, overlooked, ignored, passed over, feeling hideous and unattractive, fat and slovenly, not stylish or intelligent or interesting (please, keep interrupting me... but that's a different rant) or anything worthwhile.

So, I cultivate a loud, outrageous facade (imagine the c-cedille). I've done it so long that it is me, but so is the quiet, repressed and depressed me. Sure, for the most part I'm a content person, but I feel I lack certain things to truly complete that happiness.

But I try to like me, and I usually do. I try to apologize for things I regret, even if it's months later. I try to avoid doing things I think I'll regret, and I'm getting better at it. It just takes work.

And I work on liking me as I am -- slovenly, not stylish, wallflowery, geeky, chubby and dull. Okay, maybe not dull, but it's hard to feel fascinating when I can't get out two complete sentences before getting interrupted. Especially immediately after being asked to open up more.

So I write for me. Where I can't be interrupted, where I rarely get put down, and where I can take my time and pick and choose my words.

Even if they aren't all the words I wish I could say.